


that one will die before he gets there

by larain



Category: Dream SMP (Video Blogging RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Death, Character Study, Dream SMP Spoilers, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Prisoner Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Violence, because i like writing violence??? for some reason??, everyone only gets one, im so late i started this before he got revived, theres no three canon lives rule, this is just me brainrotting abt tommys canon deaths, title from youth by daughter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:28:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29983563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larain/pseuds/larain
Summary: Two times Tommy stares Death in the eyes and the one time it stares back.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	that one will die before he gets there

**Author's Note:**

> some songs i listened to while writing that i think fit:
> 
> youth - daughter  
> she’s playing piano - undertale ost  
> i’m sorry boris - wilbur  
> new flesh - current joys  
> disintegration - the cure  
> asleep - the smiths  
> lonesome town - rick nelson  
> mourning song - fox academy
> 
> anyway u know the drill, this is based on the dsmp characters not the real people (clearly bc irl dream didnt murder a child), please don’t repost this anywhere or share it with them, if anyone expresses discomfort at this stuff it’ll disappear into the void

1

The first time Tommy faces down death he’s sixteen, innocent-eyed, weighed down in a revolutionary jacket that’s too big in the shoulders and missing a button. He’s stumbling on weak legs after his big brother—well, not _really_ his big brother, not by blood, but he might as well be—down darkening stairs. Deeper and deeper they descend, and it only gets darker, the kind of darkness that feels present and _sentient_ , soaking into skin and bone. He’s pure and oblivious like heaven’s angels, face round and young and pink. He lets one hand drift up to grip into the back of Wilbur’s coat and the threads are a stabilizing pressure against his fingers. He’s trying to pretend he isn’t scared, like his lungs aren’t burned with Nether flame, like his heartbeats aren’t worrying rainfall in his chest.

The room is stifling, dark, and settles like fear into everyone’s skeletons. The chests are full of cobwebs. The button makes the smallest, daintiest, most unassuming of clicks when pushed by Eret’s slender fingertips. His voice reverberates through the walls, spiraling around Tommy over and over like a mantra. _It was never meant to be. It was never meant to be. It was never meant to be._ It mocks him. 

The glass shards are sharp and sweet against the smooth skin of his arms. Something drips steadily over him, dense, _powerful._ It feels like his body is being torn apart, again and again. His blood is curdling, bubbling in his veins; breaths start to come shakily and uneven; his heart is a heavy, painful stone in his ribs. There’s a cool blade pressed against the column of his neck, barely enough to draw beads of wine red.

He thinks _this is it. This is where I die._ He thinks about gray caravans and yellow tight-knit sweaters, benches full of rainwater and discs full of memories, boys made of sunshine and good things injured on the floor beside him and men made of death and tragedy holding swords to their necks. Then the moment is over and he’s heaving wonderful, cold, fresh air into his lungs. There’s a dull sting at his throat but he’s _alive,_ miraculously _alive._

2

The second time is not long after the first. The sun is blistering and he feels sweat on his scalp, down his back. He’s gripping his bow so tight the wood splinters. All around faces stare, eyes of sadness and fear and worry and—worst of all— _pity._

The planks of the path creak under his shoes. Wilbur’s voice is level, scarily so, as he counts. His words are slow and wintery, like cold sunsets and fresh snow. Tommy steps, and steps, and hears Dream do the same. He thinks back to Dream holding the sword to his neck, to the fear that settled so deep in his bones he shook. 

It happens quick. At number ten they both turn, and Tommy shoots, but misses. Dream doesn’t. The arrow punctures skin, bursting through just below the junction of his arm and shoulder. There’s yelling over his head as he curls on the planks and tries, so hard, not to cry. 

The pain is hot and it permeates, seeps into the muscles and fibers until it’s all he can feel. The blood is thick and red on his fingertips. He looks up, vision made of tv static, and thinks he can make out the hazy outline of Tubbo. He might be saying something. It’s hard to tell, because his ears are ringing, dull and loud. 

It takes weeks to heal, but he does, and he comes back swinging and yelling, just like always. 

3

His luck runs out at eighteen.

The prison is a terrifying, omnipotent thing. It feels like it breathes, inhales and exhales into blackstone lungs. It’s bleeding heart thrums through layers of obsidian. It _sees,_ from invisible eyes, everyone who enters and leaves. It may speak, but only its creator would know. 

Tommy hates it, is scared of it. He had joked his way through the endless hallways, even when Sam wouldn’t respond, because Sam’s always different inside the prison walls. Now he sits, feels the obsidian crying into his pants legs, and stares at the lava.

The lava stares back. 

It bubbles, ebbs and flows, occasionally drips onto the floor. It hits the surface with a sizzle and a puff of steam. He wants to tear his hair out, maybe scream, maybe smash shit. He’s sick, sick of being forced to exist in the same space as Dream and listen to a voice that feels like death and nails on a chalkboard in his ears. 

Tommy isn’t even really sure how the argument starts, but it does, and it escalates quickly because that’s just how they _are._ Dream is yelling at him, sharp like a blade at his neck, piercing like an arrowhead through his shoulder, charring his skin like hot lava. He screams back until it feels as if someone is dragging pointed claws down the inside of his throat. The room is boiling and it dries up his mouth, leaves his tongue loose and uncontrolled. 

The book is a fantasy. A daydream, for lack of a better word. It doesn’t _exist,_ Tommy is sure of it. He thinks of a man with a tattered coat and worn, old gloves. He’s speaking to him, in his mind’s eye, telling him _let’s be the bad guys,_ but Tommy doesn’t want to. He’s never wanted to. As much as he may miss chewing warm bread in a bakery made of sunshine, and the smell of used books that always lingered, and a rough jacket that now hangs too big around him, he can’t. He can’t let himself believe, and he can’t let him come back, anyway. 

Wilbur Soot would watch the world burn and _laugh._

It occurs to him, suddenly, that he’s been saying most of this out loud. _Loose lips sink ships,_ is all he can think, really, as Dream’s fist collides with his face. The hurt is duller than he thought it would be. He keeps talking, because of course he does, because he never really learned when to shut up. He talks and talks and all he can feel is _pain,_ searing and infinite, all through his bones. He feels teeth crack, falling bright and white against the deep purple of the obsidian. There’s a tender ring around his eye he’s sure will bruise. A hit to the stomach leaves him swallowing down vomit because _it’s all he can do to not stop speaking._

His vision goes white and he wonders if Dream really knows how strong he is. He mutters, once, weak and defeated— _stop._ In the moment Tommy thinks he may have paused for the briefest of seconds. Then his head smacks into the floor and there’s a bloody ocean in his sightline. He tastes metal on his tongue. There’s another dull ache in his chest and a sickening _crack_ reverberates through the cell.

That punch, it seems, was one too many. 

Tommy dies, curled up on the prison floor, in a pool of his own blood. Dream watches, red sinking into the lines of his calluses, his pupils dilated, hands twitching and shaking. 

_Third time’s the charm._

**Author's Note:**

> hope u enjoyed :) thank u to ale my beloved for proofreading !!! ur the best 
> 
> also i think its funny so ill share that the working title for this was “massive L” lmfao
> 
> anyway uhhhh thats all my twt is L4RA1N if anyone cares 
> 
> byebye


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